


the dark before the Dawn

by rocknrollravenclaw



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fitz and Simmons buy their cottage, Post 3.10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6012454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknrollravenclaw/pseuds/rocknrollravenclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine gift for leopoldfitzsimmons on tumblr. Prompt: FitzSimmons buy their cottage in Scotland. Basically Fitz and Simmons go on leave for two weeks in Scotland, Jemma wants to buy said cottage, and both get the emotional catharsis they deserve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dark before the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a line in the song “Failure” by Breaking Benjamin, which put me in the right mood for writing this fic.  
> Most of my info about Perthshire and Dunkeld came from Wikipedia, though I also relied on visitscotland.com.  
> I’m not Scottish so I don’t know how to write like a Scottish person.  
> This came out fairly angsty and the story took a while in getting to the cottage part, so sorry about that. I hope you enjoy it!

“Welcome to safe house 3-08, code name Beach House. This is our newest safe house in Scotland, and I hope you two find it suits your needs. Because this is a low-risk area, you are free to explore Perth, but we recommend you stray no more than five miles from this house. I will be checking in every day at nine pm sharp. In case of emergencies, you can reach me at the number in your instruction packet, using the code word ‘unicorn’. Do you have any questions?”

Jemma started, blinking in confusion as the cascade of words suddenly stopped. She’d been trapped inside her thoughts, the new normal for her, and hadn’t heard a word the agent had said. She couldn’t even remember the agent’s name.

It was Fitz who finally answered. “No, we’re fine, thanks.”

The agent smiled blandly. “Have a pleasant afternoon. I’ll see you this evening.” She turned crisply on her heel and exited the house, followed by the two other agents who had accompanied her. The door latched behind her with a slight _click_ , and the house was silent.

Hurriedly Jemma reached into her pocket and snatched her earbuds, sticking them into her ears and playing the music stored on her iPod. She sighed with pleasure as the sounds of an acoustic guitar flooded her ears. When she had first returned from Maveth, she couldn’t stand the noise. Now it was her friend. Noise broke the deadly silence — the silence that liked to reach into her brain and play. With music in her ears, the silence couldn’t touch her. Picking up her bag, she made her way down the hall to the bedroom that had been prepared for her.

Coulson had been the one to bring it up. With everything that had happened recently — the Monolith, Ward, Will — he approached Jemma and told her that he was ordering her and Fitz to go on leave for a month, to recuperate and heal. Jemma had been ready to argue, to tell him she was fine and didn’t need a break.

But that was a lie.

She agreed on the condition that their leave be reduced to two weeks, to Coulson’s relief and Fitz’s unhappiness. Fitz was impatient to spend time in the lab seeing if **It** had managed to escape Maveth, but even he recognized that time off would be a relief. With Coulson’s promise that Bobbi would supervise the lab, he had finally relented. Twelve hours later, their plane landed in Perthshire County, Scotland, at what looked like a long two weeks.

Jemma knew she was quite brilliant at many things, but expressing her feelings was not one of them. Daisy had once jokingly called her “emotionally constipated” because her deepest feelings refused to come out without a laxative (such as a bottle of Jack Daniels). Her kiss with Fitz in the lab was the closest she’d come to expressing herself, and even that had ended badly.

Maybe here she could. Maveth, Ward, Will — they would kill her if she didn’t let them out. At the thought of Ward, the hidden cuts and bruises that had been inflicted on her ached softly and her hatred simmered beneath the surface. It felt better than the regret of releasing Lash and the guilt of abandoning Will to his death. At least hatred made her feel in control, however unstable that control was.

She knew she needed this, for her own good.

Jemma dropped her duffel bag on the crisply-made bed and unzipped the top. She grabbed her neatly folded clothes and began placing them in piles. A knock on the door interrupted her, and she turned around to see Fitz standing in the doorway. She removed her earbuds and hung them around her neck, waiting for him to speak.

“Hey, um, I was gonna make myself a sandwich, and I wanted to know if you wanted one too,” Fitz said, his words coming out in a rush. His hand idly scratched at his neck, a tic Jemma knew all too well. There was something more he wanted to say.

“No thanks, I had a snack on the plane,” Jemma replied, turning back to her duffel. She had a anxious feeling she knew what he was going to bring up. Her stomach felt lined with rocks and she closed her eyes, focusing on keeping her breathing steady.

“Oh. Okay.” Though he was silent for a moment, Jemma knew he hadn’t left. Fitz cleared his throat. “Jemma, I want you to know, if you need to talk about Will, I’m-“

“I _don’t_ want to talk about him.” Jemma felt cold all over. She resisted the urge to touch her right eyebrow, something she had been doing reflexively since Maveth. She knew she would have to talk about him sometime, but not now.

“Jemma-“

“Fitz, I need to start unpacking.” The excuse was weak, seeing as most of her stuff was already on the bed. But she needed him to go away. What did he want to hear — how guilty she felt over leaving Will behind? How she loved _both_ Will and Fitz? How she felt that at any moment her composure and sanity would jump ship, leaving her to drown beneath the waves? “Just go.”

Jemma returned to the task of unpacking, still not facing Fitz. She heard him shuffle away, a soft, forlorn sound. Earbuds back in ears, she let the soothing sound of Taylor Swift calm her breathing.

“Just close your eyes,  
The sun is going down.  
You’ll be alright,  
No one can hurt you now . . .”

_I need this._

* * * * *

Jemma spent most of the rest of the first day secluded in her room, idly reading a book on the neuroscience behind common mental illnesses and catching up on the latest series of Doctor Who. After having her own alien encounters, however, the show just didn’t seem as fun and exciting as it used to. Hunger finally prompted her to leave her room.

Fitz was sitting on the plush couch in the living room, dozing off while a soap opera quietly played on the television. Jemma was struck by how relaxed he looked: head limp against the soft cushions, mouth hanging open, arms settled loosely in his lap. She hadn’t realized how stressed and tense he’d been — well, of course she _knew_ , but she didn’t quite comprehend it until now. She wasn’t the only one suffering.

Grabbing a blanket from her room, she settled down next to Fitz and threw it over both of them. The movement woke Fitz, who looked at her blearily for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” said Jemma.

“Me too,” said Fitz.

And nothing more needed to be said. Changing the channel, they found a television movie that didn’t look too bad. Jemma leaned into Fitz, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They stayed that way until Jemma’s stomach grumbled so loud it startled Fitz. They burst into a fit of laughing and abandoned the movie in favor of making something to eat. The agent checked in with them as they were busy making omelets, narrating the experience like an over-exaggerated cooking show. Jemma went to bed that night not exactly at peace, but feeling anchored and secure.

They spent the next several days exploring Perth. The weather was cold and cloudy; but with nothing else for Jemma and Fitz to do, they spent their time wandering the city. Sometimes they held hands, sometimes they didn’t. As much as she liked the connection between their linked hands, the feeling of being tethered to reality, at times her guilt overwhelmed her and his hand felt like a burning brand of judgment. _Why couldn’t you hold onto Will like this?_ the silence asked her. _Maybe then he would have made it home._

The morning of their sixth day, as Jemma steeped some chamomile tea for the two of them, Fitz practically ran into the kitchen, holding a large map in front of him. “How’d you like to take a field trip?” he asked, excitement punctuating his words.

Jemma grabbed two mugs from the dish drainer and set them next to the steaming teapot. “Where to?”

“Here.” Displaying the map on the island in the kitchen, Fitz pointed to a tiny dot on the map. “Dunkeld. It’s a town about fifteen miles north of Perth. Very scenic. Lots of trees. What do you say?”

Jemma leaned over the map. “Dunkeld . . . the name sounds familiar. I think I stopped there with my parents when we were on our road trip to the Highlands.”

“Oh. Well, if you don’t want to go we can find somewhere else-“

“No! You misunderstand.” A cottage flashed into her mind, a scene she saw out a car window many years ago. _The_ cottage. “I would love to go back.” To her surprise she found her lips slightly curving upward, as if attempting to smile. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. Tears began to fill her eyes and she hastily turned away so Fitz wouldn’t see. _Why should you be happy? The world is a terrible place. Sooner or later you’ll be miserable again, which is just what you deserve._

Abruptly Fitz pulled open the door to the refrigerator. “So, what’s for breakfast?” And just like that, the thoughts scattered, fleeing back to their dark corners.

Jemma was tired. She felt the shadow creeping over her again, slowing her limbs and sapping her will. She knew enough about depression to remind herself that getting up and doing something was better than succumbing to it. She may be weak, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

* * * * *

After breakfast and tea, Jemma and Fitz made their way to the bus station, where they hopped on a bus heading north. They both carried day packs containing umbrellas, snacks, and the instruction packet with the emergency phone number. Jemma had remembered the agent’s warning to stay within five miles of Perth, and she was sure Fitz had too, but neither of them mentioned it.

Jemma spent most of the bus ride enjoying the scenery. The grassy hills around Perth slowly gave way to isolated bunches of trees, which evolved into thick forests of oak and yew. If only there had been some sunshine, to filter through the trees and fill the air with golden light. She hadn’t realized how much she missed trees; something about them made the world seem less empty and more alive.

After a brief stop in Bankfoot, the bus arrived in Dunkeld. The town was like most towns in the British Isles: tiny and charming, home to a dwindling local population, featuring tourist-oriented shops along the main road and a mix of updated houses and centuries-old buildings. Old-fashioned cottages and farmhouses populated the land beyond the river at the edge of town, looking like a scene off a postcard.

Jemma and Fitz stepped off the bus, meeting the cool, crisp air outside. They studied the timetable on the wall of the bus station, noting the times the south-bound bus would be stopping by. Fitz took a picture on his phone for future reference while Jemma inspected the map of Dunkeld. The street arrangement was simple, meaning it would take barely any time to see the entire town — thereby giving her plenty of time to find the cottage.

“So, where do you want to start?” Fitz asked, coming up behind her suddenly and startling her. Jemma’s heart started pounding unnecessarily fast, and her right hand instinctively drifted down to her handmade shiv in her pocket. Instantly a feeling of self-loathing rushed through her. It was frustrating how she felt she’d be getting back to normal, then instances like this reminded her how damaged she was.

Taking a deep calming breath, Jemma turned to Fitz with a bland smile. “Why don’t you pick first,” she suggested.

Fitz must have noticed her reaction, because he frowned slightly, but he merely said, “I thought we could explore the town, see what’s there.”

“Sounds great.” Jemma hesitated briefly, then held out her hand, fingers splayed. Today was one of those days where she needed to have her hand held by someone, to keep her anchored to the present. Fitz gently laced his fingers between hers and gave her hand a quick squeeze. Together they headed toward the heart of Dunkeld.

As Jemma had predicted, exploring Dunkeld took barely any time. They visited every shop in town, each as quaint and charming as the others. Fitz bought himself a hand-knitted wool hat with a pom pom on top, while Jemma purchased some locally-made teabags. All the residents they met greeted them cheerfully, which they did likewise. Jemma found herself growing more and more relaxed, her lethargy slipping away and her shiv forgotten.

 _I like this place_ , Jemma decided. Dunkeld was the kind of town where everybody said hello to their neighbors everyday. It was the kind of town that was a good blend of rural and urban, being only 15 miles from a major town, yet with a feeling of seclusion. It was quiet, but a good kind of quiet. A quiet where everybody was at peace with one another and themselves; a comfortable silence.

On their way out of town Jemma kept swatting at the pom pom on Fitz’s new hat; he covered his head and tried to evade her, complaining in his thick accent, but she could see that he enjoyed her playfulness. They found a trailhead leading into the woods and decided to follow it. The trail was less than a mile long and led them through the gorgeously lush forest to the top of a small hill. From there they had a slight vantage point over the rest of Dunkeld and the surrounding area. Besides the busy A9, the area looked remote and rustic.

Jemma’s gaze followed the A9 north from the bus station, seeing if she could glimpse her cottage. Immediately doubts assailed her. _It’s been years; what if it’s been torn down? Or worse, what if someone owns it and loves it?_ Not that she would buy it, of course, that would be silly. But she just wanted to see it again, to _feel_ it again . . .

Then she spotted it. A smooth dirt path, leaving the A9 and winding through the trees to a small cottage nearly hidden in the woods. It looked to be less than a mile from where they were. She pointed to it. “Let’s go there,” she announced.

“Where?” Fitz squinted. “What, that dinky shack in the woods?”

“It’s not a _shack_ , it’s a cottage,” Jemma replied evenly.

He gazed it it for a moment before understanding dawned on his face. He turned to Jemma. “Is that . . .?”

“Yes, Fitz. _The_ cottage.”

She had expected him to look pleased that he would finally get to see the infamous cottage, or at least act intrigued. Instead, his face fell and hardened slightly. “Fine.” He brushed past her and went back down the trailhead. Jemma was bewildered. What was the matter with him?

They made their way to the A9 and walked along the side, not speaking. On the way Jemma ate one of the tasteless protein bars she had brought with her, mostly to have something to do. She didn’t know what about the cottage had put Fitz in a bad mood, but she suspected she would find out soon enough. Her stomach felt heavy at the thought.

They found the driveway leading to the cottage and momentarily stopped. The cottage was visible even from here: a shabby two-story home with a tattered thatch roof. Jemma couldn’t remember the cottage looking so dilapidated. But at least it was still there. She continued down the road, curiosity starting to take hold. Though as a little girl she would explore the cottage in her dreams, in reality she had never been this close.

As she got closer, the trees pulled away to reveal an equally battered white truck parked off to the side. Jemma felt her hopes start to dwindle, even as she tried to convince herself that it was just a passerby stopping to take a stretch break. She unconsciously increased her pace until she was practically running.

A tall man with bushy eyebrows and an impressive mustache moved from where he had been leaning against the truck to intercept Jemma. “Whoa there missy, where d’you think you’re goin’?” he drawled, taking the cigarette from his mouth and stamping it under his boot.

Jemma slid to a halt. “Who owns this place?”

“That’d be the government,” he replied, frowning and crossing his broad arms in front of his equally massive chest. “At least, until they tear’t down.”

Jemma’s mouth fell open. “Tear it down? Why?” Fitz caught up to her and stood by her side, studying the cottage.

“Nobody’s owned ’t for years now, and it’s showin’ ’t.” The man swept his hand out to indicate the cottage. “Look at ’t! It’s only a matter of time before it becomes unsafe.”

 _No. It can’t end like this._ “Can I have a look?”

“Miss, I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“But what if I wanted to buy it?” The words came out in a rush. If buying it was the only way to save this place, then so be it. For reasons Jemma couldn’t quite understand, this cottage was important to her; if it was removed, she didn’t know what she would do.

The man raised a fluffy eyebrow. “I’d say it’s your bad decision to make.”

“Thanks.” Jemma strode past him and entered the cottage. She could hear Fitz follow her, his footsteps clicking on the hardwood floor. The space was cozy bordering on tight; if it had been any smaller it might have been a house for one. Chairs and a loveseat were jumbled in the space off to their left, along with a desk, a bookshelf, and a low table. The back left corner was enclosed, probably hiding the bathroom. The kitchen was located along the back wall, separated from the rest of the room by a long counter. There was a small closet for jackets and boots; and completing the tour, directly off to their right side, was a narrow and steep set of stairs that led up to the top floor.

It was perfect.

Well, Jemma had to admit it wasn’t _exactly_ perfect. There were no appliances, for starters. All the furniture looked either old or broken in some way. One of the steps had a long crack running along the grain of the wood. And there were probably numerous issues the man outside could tell her: leaky roof, splintery floorboards, maybe no working electricity...

But it looked so much like how Jemma had dreamed it. And better yet, it was available. “We could buy it,” she murmured, mostly to herself. Other than a few souvenirs here and there, she hadn’t spent any of the money she’d earned at S.H.I.E.L.D. Surely she had enough to buy a derelict cottage. She and Fitz could own it together — a place just for them.

She turned to share her excitement with Fitz but felt her grin fade at his expression. It was stormy, worse than it had been on the hill. Jemma’s stomach churned uncomfortably. This looked like the beginning of a fight, and she hated fighting with Fitz. It was like punching a wall: it sounded like a good way to release anger, but in the end it just made everything hurt worse.

“Fitz, what’s wrong?” she asked after a moment of silence, knowing she couldn’t delay it any longer.

“It’s just-“ He paused for a moment to unconsciously scratch his neck. “What do you _want_ , Jemma?”

Jemma cocked her head, confused. “What do you mean?”

“One minute you’re kissing me, and the next minute you’re saying you love Will.” The words came out in a rush, like he had been waiting to say them for a while. He began to pace restlessly, but not before noticing that she had flinched at mentioning Will’s name. “You bring me to this cottage where you imagine us living together, but you won’t talk about him with me. You can’t decide which one of us you love, so you go back and forth. You’re fickle, Jemma. You’re fickle and I don’t know what you want.”

Jemma felt her anger resurface, bubbling beneath her skin; instead of thinking about Ward, this time she directed it at Fitz. She smiled bitterly. “Believe it or not, I have the ability to love two people at once. Unlike you, apparently. You don’t love or care for anybody else, do you? You’ll destroy the whole bloody world if it means keeping me safe!”

“Yes, I will!” Fitz shouted. “Because-“

“Even though you possibly let **It** through! You’re selfish, _Leo_. Your duty is to protect the world, yet you’d sacrifice it and everyone living in it just so you don’t have to hear me scream-“

“Because I love you! That’s what people do when they love each other.” Fitz’s face was red and his fists clenched, body full of tension. It was almost like his body was crackling, like he was full of static electricity that at any moment would explode outward.

When he spoke next, his voice was accusing. “You love him more, don’t you.”

“What, because I’m mourning the fact that’s he’s dead?” Jemma hissed. “Because I don’t feel like deserting him _a week_ after he died?” She was outraged that Fitz would even say that; couldn’t he see that in every instance where she had had to choose between the two of them, she had always gone with Fitz? And she knew she would always pick Fitz, no matter what.

The anger fueling her hard words started to cool, and to her horror she felt tears begin to pool in her eyes. Jemma desperately wanted to hold onto her anger, the tenuous and thrilling control it gave her; but the shadows were taking its place, deadening her thoughts. She turned her back on Fitz as she dug her nails into her arms. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“Why don’t you?” Fitz challenged.

“Why do you _want_ to?”

“Because I need you to forgive me.” The frustration that had been sustaining Fitz seemed to be gone, replaced by a weary sadness. His words were heavy, burdened like Atlas. “I failed you Jemma. I promised you I’d bring him back and I didn’t.” He sniffed loudly. “And d’you want to know what’s worse than that? Hmm?”

Jemma slowly turned back around. Fitz’s eyes were red, two tears rolling down his cheeks in parallel tracks of grief. He continued, “Part of me is _glad_ that I failed to bring him back. Because I love you, Jemma, but with him around I’d always be second best. I shouldn’t be relieved that he’s dead, but a small part of me is. I’m a terrible person-“

He broke off into a few shuddering sobs. He struggled to wipe away the flood of tears now running down his face. Jemma stood there, unmoving, jaw tightly clenched. The compassionate side of her wanted to rush to Fitz and comfort him. But her cold side was still just barely in control, so she stayed where she was.

Fitz sniffed again and looked up at her. He continued, “I’m a terrible person and I don’t deserve you. But I can’t live knowing you hate me. So, I’m asking for your forgiveness. Please.”

That last plea was what did it; Jemma blinked, and the tears escaped her eyes. The shadow was firmly clamped over her mind, parading all the images of Will and **It** in front of her eyes. “It’s not your fault,” she murmured.

“What?” Fitz asked stuffily.

The waves lapped against her consciousness, threatening to take over. “It’s not your fault he died. It’s mine.” A gasp escaped Jemma as she squeezed her eyes shut, tasting salty tears caress her lips. “If only we had been a little faster, if only I held onto him like you held onto me, he would’ve made it.” Her voice was slowly rising higher in pitch, becoming more hysterical. “If I had just _held on_ -“

Her rubbery legs suddenly gave way, and Jemma fell to her knees with a _thump_. Fitz rushed over and kneeled in front of her. “You alright?” he asked tenderly.

Jemma shook her head, hysteria taking hold, and she collapsed into his arms, sobbing loudly and messily. She dug her fingers into the back of his sweater, feeling the fabric bunching up in her hands, knowing that this time she wouldn’t let go. Fitz clasped his hands behind her back. She buried her eyes in his shoulder, feeling his sweater get damp with her tears and not caring. She was at the bottom of the ocean, the surface only a glimmer in her vision. This is what it felt like to drown.

It was only when she was at her lowest, when all her guilt and anger and repressed feelings were destroying her, when she felt like there was only one way to end it all, that she understood what the cottage meant to her.

Jemma had first seen the cottage as a little girl when it was innocent and beautiful. She had imagined living in this cottage, first with her parents, later with Fitz. It was an idyllic dream, an idea that maybe one day things would get better. Once S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, it became her secret source of inspiration; no matter how bad things got, this cottage would still be there, as a marker of the good times. Maybe one day HYDRA would be gone, Will’s ghost would be at peace, and she and Fitz would be free from this pain. They could try living normal lives and spend their future together.

The cottage meant _hope_.

Hope. With that one word, Jemma felt herself swimming for the surface, cutting a path through the shadow, and taking control of her mind. She removed her head from Fitz’s shoulder and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve. Fitz removed his arms and also pulled his head back, though he kept it close to Jemma’s. She locked eyes with him, finding it both incredibly hard and painfully simple.

“I love you. But I can’t . . . _show_ it right now,” Jemma said as calmly as she could. She needed him to understand this, understand why she was acting the way she was. Her eyes wandered slightly, a small part of her mind noting that Fitz hadn’t shaved since they arrived in Scotland. Her hand itched to run itself along his stubble, feeling the coarse hair contrasted with his smooth cheek.

“I need time. I know Will’s been dead for weeks, but it feels like only a few days. I need time to properly mourn him.” As she spoke, her stomach felt lighter and lighter, like she was releasing a burden. “My feelings surrounding Will are . . . complicated, to say the least, and I need to sort them out. Sort out all my feelings, really. I’m broken, Fitz, and I can’t be with you until I’m whole again.”

Fitz nodded eagerly, his face serious yet radiant. “Whatever you need, Jemma,” he said earnestly, “I’ll do for you. If you need space-“

Jemma interrupted him. “No. I don’t need space. I need you as a friend for now, nothing more.” Fitz nodded and looked down. “ _But_ — I think we should buy this place, for when we are together. Just imagine it, Fitz, a future with a place to truly call home.” Some of her dreams from when she was a little girl floated through her memory, reminding her how beautiful this place could be. It wasn’t a perfect situation, but it was a promise of a shared future, and for now that was enough.

Leaning on Fitz, Jemma scrambled to her feet before grabbing his arms and helping him up. “Come on.” She practically skipped out the door, feeling incredibly light. Outside the sun had finally appeared for the first time since they’d arrived in Scotland. Ever since coming back from Maveth she had been entranced by the sunlight, a privilege she had been denied for six months. But now she was strangely disaffected by the sight.

The man was once more leaning on his truck, this time listening to someone on his cell phone. When he saw the two of them emerge from the cottage, he angled the receiver away from this mouth. “Miss, what you said ‘bout buying this cottage — you serious?”

She turned to Fitz, whose face was asking the same thing. She gave him a reassuring smile. Still looking at Fitz, she replied, “Yes, I’m serious.”

It was like the sun was rising all over again, this time on Fitz’s face. He was pure sunlight, face uplifted in such a beautiful expression, banishing the shadows and warming her heart. He was the only sunlight she needed.

Jemma conversed with the man more and eventually agreed to meet him back here tomorrow, where a representative from the right government division would give her an offer. Feeling emotionally exhausted, together Fitzsimmons walked down the driveway of the perfectly imperfect cottage, hands linked — by no means healed, but now with a light to lead them home.


End file.
